Series: Renee Rose
Total pages in book: 59
Estimated words: 56583 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 283(@200wpm)___ 226(@250wpm)___ 189(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 56583 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 283(@200wpm)___ 226(@250wpm)___ 189(@300wpm)
“Ciao.”
I hang up the phone, more irritable than ever. I dial Luis, who’s given me jack shit since we spoke five days ago. “Yeah, what’dya got?”
“Inconclusive. What I know is that, yeah, the Hermanos have it out for you. But I suspect I’m the guy who tipped them off that you’re out. Which means they didn’t send the first hit, but pro’ly were the ones who blew up shit at your apartment.”
I curse in Italian.
So now I have two fucking hits on my head.
Fucking great.
“I need more,” I say.
“Working on it.”
Chapter Eleven
Hannah
It’s 6:30 pm, and he hasn’t shown up. Every evening this week, Armando appeared at closing time to drive me home in the van. We ate dinner together. Had sex. Watched TV. I knew it was dangerous getting used to him being around.
I knew all along he wasn’t staying. This isn’t permanent.
But even so, I let myself sink into it. Enjoy the false domesticity. Cooking. Eating. Doing dishes. Him taking the trash bag or recycling box out of my hands and telling me he’d do it. Dying a little when he returned from the dumpster with empty boxes for Shadow to play in. It’s obvious he has grown a fondness for my kitten, and my heart pitter-patters at the thought.
But tonight he’s a no-show. I stalled. I worked late, making more arrangements than we need around here, hoping he’d show up, but he hasn’t come.
My stomach tightens.
I have a phone number for him, but when I called it, there was just a generic voicemail, and he didn’t answer my text. For all I know, he’s changed phones by now. I’m not sure what the mafioso do. Get new burner phones every other week?
I’m not even sure that texting and calling him is appropriate. He’s hiding at my house because someone’s trying to kill him, and he wants to keep me safe. And we also happen to be having sex. Lots of it. But that doesn’t make him my boyfriend, no matter how much it feels that way.
He already made that clear.
No matter that this deranged unlikely scenario might actually be my healthiest relationship. Because Armando sees me and doesn’t flinch. And that’s the most terrifying thing of all.
I get in the van and drive home, my fingers tight on the steering wheel as I navigate city traffic. It takes me forever to find a parking spot because I came home so late, but eventually, I catch someone pulling out, and I back-and-forth it thirty or forty times to fit the giant van in the small spot.
When I get up to my apartment, I hesitate outside the door.
I hear the TV.
My stomach somersaults in a weird mix of elated and pissed off. I push open the door to find Armando on my couch, feet on the coffee table, watching TV. I thunk my purse down on the table and shut the door. “You’re here.”
“Hey.” He wears his expressionless mask that right now makes me want to kick him in the shin.
I head into the kitchen. He has boxes of Chinese takeout open on the counter, and it looks like he’s already eaten.
It’s one of those moments where I know I’m overreacting—I know I’m doing clingy and weird, but I can’t stop the trainwreck of petty emotions coursing through me. I dump some of the food into a bowl and pick up a fork then turn around, eating standing up.
“So, I never agreed to just having a permanent roommate,” I say.
He’s acting casual, uncaring. It seems like a legitimate statement.
He picks up the remote and mutes the television then unfolds his large body to stand. His relaxed position on the couch was deceptive. Now he’s suddenly imposing, both in size and his don’t-fuck-with-me demeanor.
He walks toward me, a frown on his face.
I have to work to hold my ground and not shrink from his intensity.
“You want me to find another place to go?”
My stomach bottoms out. This is the ironic behavior of relationships—where you push away when you actually want more. I set the bowl of food on the table. Thrust my chin forward and shrug.
He gets closer, towering over me, but not touching. I want him to touch me—to handle me in that rough, insistent way he has, but doesn’t. “Yes or no?” His tone is total authority, demanding my answer.
I swallow and shake my head, turning away.
He catches my arm and pulls me back. “What’s this about?”
“Nothing,” I snap, annoyed now.
“Tell me.”
Maybe I don’t want to be handled because I’d definitely prefer to turn away from him now. My neck and chest flush with heat. I shake my head again and look away. “I don’t know.”
“Bullshit.”
Armando has a way of saying bullshit that hits like a punch. It’s an assault on my senses, and I feel it everywhere. When I flinch, he pulls me even tighter, right up against his body. “Don’t say you don’t know when you do. Why are you pissed at me?”